


I wrote, 'listen'; he spelled it 'silent'

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Getting Together, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Geralt wants to make Jaskier happy. Jaskier just wants to be heard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 455





	I wrote, 'listen'; he spelled it 'silent'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naughty_Yorick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for my dear friend Merry! Happiest of bears days! I love you!
> 
> This can be read romantically or mostly platonically, however you choose to ship these two. I hope you enjoy!

Jaskier placed his hands upon his hips, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He popped a shoulder forward, checking his back. Like an out-of-work ballerina, or perhaps a puppy chasing its tail, he spun in a slow circle, critical gaze roving his own form. Then he sighed.

“No, not this, either.”

“S'wrong with it?” Geralt asked, sprawled on a chaise, only partly paying attention. He was making the most of the nibbles that the tailor had provided; decent wine, dried fruits and cheese. Jaskier was a very valued customer.

“It's...” Jaskier frowned, and clicked his tongue. “You know. _Schmeh._ ”

“ _'Schmeh'_ isn't a word, nor will it help your tailor.”

“It's just not quite making the statement that I want it to make!” Jaskier exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “The sleeves make me look boxy.”

“You like puffy sleeves.”

“These aren't the right puff. One must have the correct amount of puff, Geralt.”

Geralt stared, processing that statement. “Thought you said this whole event wasn't really important?”

“It's not! I mean, well, it is. Important enough that I should be well-dressed. Better dressed than usual, I should say. But no, it's not... really not that big of a deal. The event, I mean.” Jaskier fiddled with his cuff.

“Hmm.”

“You are going to come though, right?” Jaskier asked, feigning nonchalance.

“You still want me to come?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I'll be there, as I said.”

“Right. Good.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt via the mirror, and received the smallest smirk in return. “Just don't feel obliged, is all.”

They would go in circles with this conversation, Geralt knew that much from history. He stood, brushing breadcrumbs off his shirt, and wandered behind Jaskier. Carefully, he gathered some of the fabric at the back of the doublet, pinning it in place. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt's hands – hands he had seen throttle the breath from throats, hands he had seen crush stones to powder – gently grazed his ribs, brushing the material smooth.

“How about like that?” Geralt murmured, meeting Jaskier's eyes in the looking glass. “A bit more cinch to the waist, and a bit less volume at the shoulder?”

Jaskier felt a flush creep across the bridge of his nose and settle high on his cheekbones, and hoped Geralt would not notice it. “Actually... huh. You clever thing, that does make all the difference. Well done, you!” He laughed. “I knew my influence would rub off on you someday.”

Under the rain of praise, Geralt ducked his head and retreated back to the chaise. “Just fits your body type better, is all.”

“That it does, darling. Thank you. Ivar!” Jaskier called for the tailor, who stuck his head through the curtain, “we've a few adjustments to make, if you don't mind?”

Considering the coin that Jaskier was laying down for the emerald green piece, threaded with accents of amethyst and blue topaz, Geralt suspected that Ivar had no objections. From his lazing on the couch, Geralt watched Jaskier try to stand still for the man.

“Jaskier. Should I wear something. Y'know. Nicer?”

“What? Oh, no, dearest. Just something clean. And, uh, perhaps leave your swords at the door.” Jaskier said, picking a stray thread from his bodice as Ivar worked.

“Really? You're not going to try and stuff me into something formal?” Geralt asked, dubious.

“Not this time. I want you to feel comfortable. And— _ooh,_ ouchies! Ivar, you're deft with those pins, my good man.”

“Perhaps if you'd stop fidgeting so, Master Jaskier.” Ivar said sternly.

“Ah, my apologies. I'll be still as stone.” Jaskier said, abandoning his previous thought.

Geralt stared at the wine in his cup, at his rippling reflection, and let himself relax into the background chatter, soothed by the familiarity of Jaskier's cadence.

* * *

No need to dress up. Jaskier had explicitly said that Geralt should feel comfortable. If that was to be the case, he'd simply wear a black button-up and his leather trousers. But as he gazed at the outfit laid on his bed, clad in his small-clothes, Geralt felt he wasn't making enough of an effort.

Jaskier wasn't there to advise him. The bard was already at the hall where the contest would be held, undoubtedly fretting and fussing over his lute, or perhaps socialising with the other musicians. Geralt knew he'd be playing towards the end, even closing the event, but Jaskier preferred to be early to these sorts of things.

Rummaging through his pack, Geralt pulled out a shirt that had been rolled neatly at the bottom. It was a deep crimson colour, embellished with the tiniest golden flowers embroidered at the collar. Jaskier had bought it for Geralt months ago. At the time, Geralt had thought the gift excessive, but now as he pulled it on and buttoned it up, he felt grateful. It wasn't the kind of garment to go hunting in. For a concert, however, it was perfect.

Geralt rolled the sleeves up, slid on a clean pair of trousers, and stepped into his boots. Nothing to be done there – he owned a single pair – but he did take the time to polish his belt buckle and wipe the road-dust from his leathers. Finally, he combed through his hair, and secured it neatly away from his face.

Dressing nicely wasn't exactly within his comfort zone, but Geralt thought that Jaskier might see that he'd tried. That was the important part. At least, he hoped it was.

Nervously, Geralt patted his pockets, feeling naked without his armour. He slipped a few potion vials into a discrete pouch on his belt, slid a long dagger into a sheath strapped to his calf, and felt altogether more prepared. A witcher always had to be ready.

Before he could second-guess himself, Geralt left his room at the inn, locking the door in his wake.

* * *

“Mister! Mister witcher!”

Geralt had barely walked three metres out of the establishment before he was hailed. Had the voice belonged to an adult, he'd almost certainly have pretended not to hear. Unfortunately, the low pitch of the child's voice demanded his attention. Geralt sighed, and turned to face the youth.

“What's the matter, boy?” Geralt bent his knees slightly, stooping to the child's height.

For a moment, the kid faltered, gazing at Geralt's cat-slit eyes. Geralt smiled softly, encouragingly. Wringing his hands, the boy sniffed, two fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“It's my mama, mister. She's by the river, near the bridge. Washin' the last of our clothes, she was. She didn't come home for a real long time, so I went to go look, and I think—I think a drowner has her cornered, sir, 'neath the bridge. Please, we can pay you!” The child clasped his hands together, trembling.

Fuck. What was he supposed to say? _Drowners are easy, kid. Take this knife. Go for the gills._ Geralt glanced up at the position of the moon and grit his teeth together. One or two drowners wouldn't keep him long, and he had his signs and the dagger. If he was really careful, he'd avoid getting any of their rotten fish-stinking blood on himself.

“We have to be quick, alright? I'm needed elsewhere. Come on, show me.” Geralt stood, and the boy nodded vigorously, taking off at a sprint. As he followed, Geralt hoped Jaskier would understand the delay. Maybe he'd miss the first couple of acts, but those weren't important.

Near the bridge, the child pointed urgently towards the darkness beneath it, the stone wall curved around and out of Geralt's line of sight. He motioned for the boy to stay put, withdrew his dagger, and approached the corner on silent feet. He could hear heartbeats; a good sign for the mother.

“They always fall for the kid. Told ya, Jorge.” A gap-toothed man aiming a rickety crossbow greeted Geralt in the shadows. Fucking bandits.

“You chose the wrong night, arsewipe.” Geralt growled, raising his hand to sign.

Before Geralt could reduce the bow to ash with igni, however, something heavy thudded at the back of his head. Stunned, he stumbled, dropping his dagger. A second blow, and everything went grey and fuzzy.

* * *

The hall wasn't the biggest that Jaskier had played, but it was almost packed out, and the beginning call would be soon. For the fifth or sixth time, he peeked through the velvet at the sides of the stage, searching for Geralt. Although he was an expert at melding into shadows, Geralt's muscle was unmistakable. Jaskier couldn't locate it.

“Don't fret, Buttercup.” A sweet voice startled Jaskier out of his spying.

“Fret? I'm not—I'm not fretting, my dear Priscilla. I'm, er, simply admiring the atmosphere. Great turn-out, wouldn't you say?” Jaskier smiled, but his lips quivered.

“You're looking for your witcher, are you not?”

Jaskier's cheeks flushed. “No. Maybe. He said he'd come, but, well, crowds aren't his favourite place to be. Perhaps he's outside, waiting until I play?”

“I am sure he is,” Priscilla said, reaching out to squeeze Jaskier's arm, “and all of us are excited to hear your new composition.”

“You're right, of course you're right.” Jaskier said. He blew out a breath. “Gods, I feel as a youth back at Oxenfurt, playing my first solo.”

“Here, take a sip.” Priscilla produced a flask. “Steady your nerves.”

Jaskier accepted gratefully, and took a swig of the liquid. He coughed as the vodka burnt down his throat. “Woo! That's toxic stuff, Pris'.”

“My secret weapon. Clears the pipes, emboldens the mind.” Priscilla grinned, and took a drink herself.

“Thank you.” Jaskier said, resisting the urge to fiddle with his lute. It was perfectly tuned. “I feel—well, perfectly transparent, actually. If _you_ can read me so well, surely I'll be as gauze up there, flimsy and obvious.”

“Nonsense.” Priscilla said. “I'm simply an old friend, lovely Buttercup. I know you. Nobody else here does. And do take heart – your beloved Valdo Marx was indisposed, stricken with a pox, so the gossip goes. You don't even have to deal with his face tonight!”

“True! That _is_ a silver lining. Although I would rather like the opportunity to mock his spotty, greasy little face.” Jaskier laughed. “I must say, that secret weapon has relaxed me some. Give us another mouthful?”

“Ah-ah!” Priscilla held the flask away. “One is good for the nerves, two will make you sloppy. Just sit for awhile, and stop fussing with the curtain so.”

“Five minutes!” A stage-hand yelled. A flurry of activity erupted around them.

“Thanks, Pris'.” Jaskier said, again. He took her advice, finding a stool to perch upon. His fingers ghosted over the strings of his lute, curling into various chords.

“Anytime, Buttercup.” Priscilla bumped her hip against Jaskier fondly, and walked off to get ready herself.

The curtains lifted, and the first performer was introduced; a young lady with a violin. She looked as skittish as Jaskier felt. Listening to her work the bow across her instrument, he half-turned to face a looking glass behind him. _Pull it together, Jaskier!_ he admonished the reflection, pasting on a charming smile. This was just another performance. Jaskier would perform.

* * *

Geralt came to slowly, blinking sticky eyelids, the sickly-sweet scent of chloroform lingering around him. He jerked his body, finding his arms tied securely behind him. The chill of the evening air nipped at his skin, and he realised he was void of shirt and belt. As his senses returned, he began to understand that he was still under the bridge.

The bandits were gone, their footprints in the mud around him. Geralt's head throbbed as he flexed his arms, testing the rope around his wrists. They'd taken everything – his purse, his dagger, the sheath, and even the fucking clothes on his back. He was surprised they hadn't wrestled his boots and trousers off, too. Perhaps they'd been deemed too worn.

“Fuck.” Geralt hissed aloud, remembering with a vicious clarity that he was meant to be at the hall to watch Jaskier. How much time had elapsed? From where he sat, he couldn't see the moon. Moving to bring his arms up through his legs so he could undo the rope from the front, he heard the clink of chains.

The bandits had secured his left foot to a rock in the river. Obviously they had little understanding of a witcher's metabolism, and presumed that Geralt would drown when the tide came in. They'd simply created another irritating obstacle.

“For fuck's _sake._ ” Geralt snarled, managing to bring his bound hands beneath his bent knees. From there he was able to direct a stream of igni, weakening the metal. With a sharp tug, he was freed. Then he pulled his arms up over his feet, and used the more advantageous position to tear out of the ropes.

Standing, woozy, he staggered out from the bridge, getting his bearings. He was covered in river-muck, half-naked, probably sporting blood in his hair. There was no way he'd be allowed entry into the hall. Completely unaware of the time, panicked, he sluiced water over the seat of his trousers, trying to wash the grime off. Geralt reached up to touch his head – still sore – and was pleased to see his fingers come away clean. Just bruises and a headache; he could cope with that.

Mentally, he tried to re-trace the steps back to the inn. The hall was closer. En route, he could potentially _borrow_ a shirt from a washing line. But there was the risk that he wouldn't find something that fit him, and the further danger that one of the patrolling soldiers would spot him stealing.

Nothing for it. Geralt took off back to the inn, jogging as fast as his body would allow, hoping that the keeper would take pity on his poor circumstance and forgive the lost key. There was gold to replace it inside the room.

More importantly, Geralt hoped he still had time.

* * *

Just as Priscilla had ordered, Jaskier left the curtains alone. He didn't look out at the audience as the acts went on, one after another. When Jaskier stepped up to play, he'd gaze out at the sea of people then, and he'd see the skulking bulk of Geralt at the back, and all would be well.

Except, of course, for the matter of Jaskier's song. That set off a whole new clench of muscles, anxiety forcing his feet tapping. He almost missed the stage-hand calling his name.

“Master Jaskier? Jaskier? Where is he, gods—ah!” The stout man stopped in front of Jaskier's stool. “You're up, sir. The audience is absolutely warmed for you!”

“Huh? Oh! Yes, very good.” Jaskier felt his face pull into that mask he'd practised, and he rose, shouldering his lute. Stomach churning, he followed the stage-hand to the wing, fussing with his outfit, taking deep breaths.

“You have been a wonderful audience, my fine people!” The presenter crooned, earning him a round of self-congratulatory applause. “It has been a lovely evening. As ever, we've saved a treat for last – you've been waiting so patiently – and so, I give you Jaskier, master bard and poet, with a brand new tune to enthral you!”

There was no need to ask for more applause as the man bowed out, and Jaskier walked on, waving at the fawning crowd. With haste, he scanned the seated populous and the few standing at the back. His eyes flicked from person to person, and back again.

Not there.

There was no time to entertain the feeling of his heart sinking. Jaskier smiled, hollow as anything, and bowed elegantly. “How kind you all are! I am so pleased to be here. Tonight, I'd like to offer you an original composition I've worked on for some time now.” He strummed the lute in his grasp, once. “It's entitled, _'Hear Me'._ ”

Without further verbal padding, Jaskier began to play. The melody was slow, the chords complex, advertising a gentle melancholy from the beginning. A total hush fell over his audience.

It was not meant to be sung this way. Not so sadly, not without the ear of the man who had inspired the very lyrics. Jaskier suspected the people before him would not know the difference. Still, he had not wished for such a debut.

_So every time I sing, you're there;_

_darling you're in every word,_

_though you won't ever hum the tune,_

_and I don't think you really heard – hear me..._

Across the hall, loud sniffling indicated the success of his haunted melody, but Jaskier didn't take joy from evoking emotion as he usually would. He just kept playing, a bird caged, the richness of his baritone reaching the rafters. A final note, strummed; a bow taken to riotous applause; a bard exited, stage left. Even though they kept clapping, the audience were granted no encore.

* * *

It took up far too much precious time, bickering with the innkeeper. Geralt weathered a generic slew of insults; barbs about 'his kind' and insinuations that he was nothing but a muscled simpleton, gritting his teeth and following behind the doddering woman. Once she got the door open, Geralt pushed past her, deaf to her indignant tittering. He located a stash of coin in his clothes satchel and thrust it in her direction. Thinly placated, the woman left, but not without a last round of muttering.

Geralt had no designs to listen. Ruffling further through his shirts, he despaired at his lack of suitable garments. It had been his intention to do a round of laundry _after_ the performance. Now, he had no choice but to pluck out the last semi-presentable black button-up – wincing at a hole in the armpit seam – and scramble to pull it on.

As he buttoned, Geralt glanced over at the mirror. There was mud smeared on his cheek, and the hasty splash in the river had only served to coat him in a thin brown film. He groaned, grabbing a sheet from the wash-basin, dipping it and scrubbing his face. Then he scraped his hands through his hair, fingers catching in knots. Frustrated, he twisted all of it together and secured it into a disastrous bun at the nape of his neck.

It was all he could do.

With a regretful glance at his reflection, Geralt ran from the room for a second time that evening. Didn't matter that he had no key to lock up. His most coveted treasure was awaiting him at a song hall.

* * *

Jaskier glanced up blearily as the door at the back of the hall burst open with such force that it slammed against the stone wall inside. Sat at the edge of the stage, an open bottle of Erveluce beside him, he imagined he cast a pitiful, lonely figure in the dark room. Maybe if he sat very still, Geralt would not notice--

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed, jogging down the empty aisle, “I'm here.”

“So you are.” Jaskier said. “I am afraid my song was sung, oh, about an hour ago.”

Geralt visibly winced. Jaskier drank directly from his bottle, neglecting to offer any to Geralt. The liquor was helping, bit by bit; every sip shaved some of the edge off the hurt.

“I'm sorry.” Geralt muttered.

“As am I. No matter. As I said, it wasn't very important.”

“I think that maybe it was, though.”

“Do you now?” Jaskier tilted his head. “So why did you miss it?”

“There was—there were...” Geralt faltered, tongue apparently uncooperative. “Drowners. Contract.”

For a long moment, Jaskier said nothing. He raised his eyebrows and he stared, but he was silent. In front of him, Geralt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then Jaskier barked out a shrill laugh, piercing the quiet.

“You snubbed me to squash some of the Continent's fleas? Really, Geralt? Fucking _drowners_ were more important than half an hour of your time spared for me?” Jaskier stood, swiping his bottle up.

“It wasn't—I didn't—”

“No, no, I get it. Truly. You're a witcher, this is what you must do. I have no doubt that you judged the matter urgent. I'm a bard, just a bard, with my silly little songs and what-have-you. There will be other times for frivolity, I am sure.” Jaskier smiled, something painted and false.

Geralt glanced down at his dirty shoes. “Jul— _Jaskier._ Please. Come back to the inn?”

“I'd love to, Geralt, but I have another engagement to attend. Don't wait up. I'll see you in the morning.”

As he walked away from the witcher, Jaskier prayed that Priscilla didn't have company and was willing to put up with his drunken woes. Sleep would help. In the morning, Jaskier would nurse a hangover and some bitterness, but sometimes that was the way of his life. They would carry on. Everything would be the fucking same.

Behind him, Geralt watched Jaskier depart, hoping the bard would spare a glance over his shoulder. When he did not, Geralt stood for a long time, gazing at the empty stage.

* * *

Geralt was trying. In every way he knew how to, he was trying. A whole week had passed since the incident at the hall, and Jaskier remained closed-off, even as he still chattered nonsense and walked at Roach's side.

When they stopped at the next town, Geralt found them a nice room in a cozy tavern. That night, he offered Jaskier the bed all to himself. Jaskier faltered at the invitation, smiled, and hesitantly accepted. But he smelled like sour sadness, and as Geralt laid on the wooden floor by the fire to sleep, he puzzled over it.

They could easily have been on the road the next day. Roach was rested, and Geralt had re-stocked his wolfsbane supply. Jaskier had liked playing for the townspeople the night before, however, and so Geralt proposed that they stay a second evening.

“Hmm?” Jaskier had responded, seemingly absorbed with his bread and sliced sausage lunch. “Oh, sure. Whatever you like, Geralt.”

A week of 'Geralt'. He'd never admit it, but Geralt missed Jaskier's little endearments. It was stupid to want to be called 'darling' in front of other people, but Geralt craved the sound of the word again. Sullenly, he picked his bread crust into pieces, appetite dulled.

This was Geralt's fault, through and through, he knew that. Firstly, he should have been ready for the bandits, for the trap. He'd been so preoccupied that he'd ignored clear signs of the child's deception. What was worse was his inability to admit this embarrassment to Jaskier. _You're a witcher,_ Jaskier had said, like it was something to be proud of. Like Geralt hadn't shamed himself and his training like a first-year recruit.

There was no opportunity to broach the subject, either. Jaskier kept the topics of discussion light and impersonal. The weather. The birdsong. Geralt was fucking sick of hearing about how nice the breeze was.

So he kept trying. That night, as Jaskier played, Geralt attended. He found himself squashed into a corner, as was normal, but he attempted to clap when others clapped. He ignored the ringing in his sensitive ears as the people cheered. Jaskier played a couple of his older compositions, and he chose upbeat crowd favourites, too. He'd done the same the evening prior.

“Play the new one!” Someone shouted, and there was a ripple of supportive tittering.

“I'm afraid that one needs further work, my fine people!” Jaskier called back. Before they could object, Jaskier smoothly launched into a scandalous ditty about a buxom pirate, and the merry-makers soon forgot the slight.

Geralt frowned into his empty ale cup. Jaskier was always working on something-or-other, but Geralt was unaware of a new song ready for debut. It hit him with a sudden cold clarity that the whole reason Jaskier had wanted Geralt at the hall so desperately was because he'd written something new. Something he wanted Geralt to listen to.

And now Jaskier doubted his skill, or reviled the tune he'd composed.

Nobody saw the door open and close as Geralt slipped out of the tavern.

* * *

Exhausted, Jaskier took a final bow and jumped down from the table he'd been using as a platform. His cap wasn't overflowing, but he'd made a decent amount for the size of his audience. Pocketing the crowns, Jaskier carefully tucked his lute back into its case, shouldered the instrument, and approached the bar.

“Ale, my good man,” Jaskier signalled the tender, “and I'd be grateful for hot water to be sent to my room. Worked up a bit of a sweat.”

“Of course, master bard.” The man nodded, pouring. “Shall we send the tub up?”

“No, no need. I'll freshen up in the basin. Too tired to wait for a bath, I'm afraid.” Jaskier took the offered drink, and gulped greedily.

“Aye, got a bit rowdy there. All that feet stamping must be taxing. How 'bout your companion? Would he require the bath?”

“You mean Geralt?” Jaskier blinked, glancing around. The corner that the witcher had been occupying like a territorial spider was empty. “I am not sure. He can tell you himself, if he does.”

“Right-oh.” The tender shrugged. “Think he left halfway through your set.”

Jaskier snorted. “Sounds like him.”

“Well, thank you for the cheer, master bard. Water will be waitin' for you, as well as dinner. Good night.”

Nodding his thanks, Jaskier downed the rest of his drink, slaking his thirst. Giving the room a last scan and confirming that Geralt was nowhere to be found, Jaskier considered going outside to see if Roach was still stabled. What would be the point, though? If she wasn't there, Geralt was off on some contract that Jaskier had no knowledge of. If she was there, it wasn't as though she could tell him where Geralt had absconded to.

Fuck it. Jaskier tramped up the steps, feeling heavy. Opening the door to their shared room, he poured the waiting water into the basin, lazily shucking his clothes off. Daubing the dried sweat from his skin, Jaskier told himself it didn't matter where Geralt was. It had been made apparent to him that such information was not a privilege he had access to.

 _Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter._ If he said it enough times, Jaskier thought he might eventually believe it. As he climbed into bed alone, he told himself that he was keeping the lantern burning low because it helped him sleep. He left half the plate of food untouched because he wasn't that hungry. Not for Geralt's benefit when he returned. _If_ he returned.

_Doesn't matter._

Even though he was fatigued down to the marrow of his bones, Jaskier did not find sleep easily.

* * *

By the time Jaskier's eyelids creaked open like a pair of rickety attic doors, sunlight was beaming vividly though the small window, indicating the late hour. For a long moment Jaskier simply laid there, curling his legs in a languid stretch, thinking about returning back to his dream. Something about tiptoes and secret smiles, a glass-clinking bag carried, Geralt's hair--

“Oh, cock!” Jaskier exclaimed, sitting up like a shot. It was late – likely past midday – and Geralt was going to skin him alive for being so lazy.

“Good morning to you, too.” The Geralt in question said. Jaskier's eyes flew to an armchair in the corner, where the witcher was sat, a book open on his knee. Entirely odd, given that they'd already dallied in the town for two nights.

“Geralt, fuck, sorry,” Jaskier said, trying to escape the snare of the bedsheets, “give me two, maybe three minutes, and I'll be ready to go.”

“No rush.”

Jaskier paused, half-stuffed into his undershirt, which was inside-out. “What?”

“You seemed tired when I got in last night. Everyone needs rest sometimes.” Geralt lowered his eyes back to the text as Jaskier dressed.

“I suppose, but... hey! I'm the one who keeps telling you that!” Jaskier chuffed.

“You do. Perhaps I am listening. Witchers get an entire winter to rest. Bards, however, ought to seize the chance where they can.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Geralt?”

Geralt smiled, grunting at the tired joke. “C'mon, let's grab a late lunch before we leave.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he laced up his breeches, tugged on his boots, and followed Geralt downstairs.

* * *

“Did you visit a brothel last night?”

“Nope.” Geralt said.

“A healer? A masseuse? You're different today. I don't like it.” Jaskier tightened one of the bags attached to Roach's saddle.

“Different how?”

“I don't know. Less... sulky.”

“Would you like me to sulk?” Geralt offered.

“No! No, carry on. As you are.” Jaskier laughed nervously. “Just—you're not planning to sell me at our next stop, or push me into the Pontar along the way, are you?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't get much coin for you. Too chatty, too,” he pinched Jaskier's bicep, “scrawny.”

“ _Scraw_ —Geralt, you boorish knob-juggler! I'll have you know that I'm the strongest I've ever been! I'm hale and completely in my pri—why are you laughing?”

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

Jaskier twiddled his fingers. “Uh. Knob-juggler?”

Geralt guffawed, and clapped Jaskier soundly on the back. “Nice. Lambert would like that one.” He unhitched Roach's reins. “Lead on, Roachie.”

As they exited the stall, Jaskier stared at Geralt's back for a moment, before following a few paces behind. The mantra he'd been repeating, chipping away to make a home in his chest, stilled. Jaskier felt an unfurling of hope slowly try to refill the space. Resolutely, he ignored the warmth of it.

Maybe it mattered. Just a _little._

* * *

“Here.” Geralt said, leading their small party off-road and to a clearing just behind a thicket of trees. “Let's make camp.”

“What? We're barely twenty minutes out of town!” Jaskier exclaimed.

“Roach's gait is off. I gotta check her shoes, and it'll be dark soon. We'll make better time tomorrow.”

“Right, then. Very well.” Jaskier said. He wasn't going to protest, not when Roach's health was in question. Instead, he took up a seat on one of a few fallen logs, setting his pack and lute down.

Geralt went about his usual nesting preparations when they settled to camp. Bags were unhitched, cooking and food supplies set to one side, tack unbuckled. He hummed off-key the way he always did when he was about to do something that Roach might object to, soothing her in his steady presence. Some time passed in relative silence.

“Fuck.”

Looking up from where he was fossicking for parchment in a satchel, Jaskier frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Farrier in Tretogor fucked up. I need a rasp.”

“A—what? We were in Tretogor over two weeks ago, though.” Jaskier said.

Gently, Geralt set Roach's hoof back down. “I need you to head back into town, see the smith. He should have what I need.”

“Me? Why me? That's an hour's round trip! And I'm sitting down already. _You_ go.”

“I need to clean around her shoe before I can file—look, just _go,_ would you? Buy yourself some strawberries whilst you're near the market, and quit pouting.” Geralt tossed his purse over.

Deftly, Jaskier caught it. He grumbled beneath his breath, but stood up all the same, pocketing the coin. With his nose in the air, he stalked past Geralt.

“Rasp, strawberries. Anything else, _your highness?_ ”

“Nope. Road's safe and clear. Be back soon.” Geralt glanced up. “And I prefer 'sire'.”

“Ha ha, mock the errand boy. Why do I put up with you? Urgh, don't answer that.” Jaskier turned on his feet and began walking back to the road. “I mean, really. Next I'll be wiping your arse, or peeling grapes for you, or...”

As Jaskier's voice trailed off into a distant whine, Geralt smiled to himself.

* * *

Honestly, the errand was painless, but Jaskier felt entitled to his brooding. No expense was spared on the rasp – Roach deserved the best, after all – and so Jaskier put his haggling skills to work with the strawberries. With a small basket full of them, plus a bonus pair of slightly over-ripe peaches, he dawdled on the road back out of town.

The sun was setting, lighting a few scant clouds a pretty pink from below, a contrast to the warm orange of the sky. Jaskier sighed at the sight, stuck a strawberry in his mouth, and let his mind drift. He'd not admit it to Geralt, but the walk had ordered his thoughts some.

Why was it that Jaskier accepted the bare minimum from Geralt? A week had passed since the horrible incident at the hall, and the rejection still stung. Only when Jaskier idled on the memory, though. Was he truly a loyal sap at the side of a man who... well. Didn't listen? Didn't _care?_

Jaskier didn't want to believe that. Geralt could be stubborn, and obtuse, but he cared about a lot of things. The damn rasp in his hand was evidence of that. Geralt cared, but when it came to Jaskier, it felt like the witcher had a blind spot. True, they had a kind of friendship, and they'd gotten into and out of trouble together more times than Jaskier could count, but--

Nearing the place where they had stepped off the road, Jaskier saw the comforting glow of fire between the trees. That was nice. Geralt had started to cook, then. It was a trade-off, like so many situations in their relationship. Jaskier walked to town, therefore Geralt would take care of dinner.

“You won't believe the price I got these berries for.” Jaskier said, announcing his arrival as he navigated his way to the clearing, eyes downcast so he wouldn't be caught by a wayward branch and trip. “The merchant practically gave them away!”

Geralt said nothing. Jaskier stepped through some grass, and into the light. He looked up, and completely lost his grip on the basket, gasping.

The campsite had been utterly transformed in his absence. All around, candles winked in tiny glass jars, balanced in the trees, dotted on the ground. There were daisy petals scattered, white and sweet. Red ribbons threaded from branch to branch, tied into neat bows. The fallen logs had been rearranged; they were parallel, one plain, one covered with bunches of cute yellow flowers. In the centre of everything knelt Geralt, holding Jaskier's lute case.

“Geralt...?”

“A week ago, I wronged you. I knew you wanted me at the hall. I believe you'd written something for me to hear. I dressed in the red shirt you bought me. When I left the inn, a child convinced me his mother was in distress, trapped by a drowner. I thought it'd be a quick stop on the way to see you. But it was a ruse. Instead, I was ambushed by bandits.”

Carefully, Jaskier knelt, too. “Fuck, Geralt. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I felt... weak. Stupid. I was too ashamed to admit that I was so nervous to hear you play that I let a street urchin con me. You drew your own conclusions, and I told myself it was better that way.” Geralt lifted his gaze, the flickering candlelight turning his gilded irises precious. “It wasn't. It isn't. I'm sorry I didn't make it to your performance. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you why.”

“You didn't have to... do all _this,_ though. It's lovely, don't get me wrong, but... Geralt, I would have listened anywhere, any time.”

“ _I_ want to listen, though.” Geralt held out the case. “Jaskier, I couldn't come to your stage. So I have made you one, here. Will you play for me?”

Blinking a hot swell of tears back, Jaskier nodded wordlessly, accepting his lute. He took his time pulling it out, listening to the tune of the strings, allowing himself space to breathe and swallow the tightness in his throat. When he felt ready, Jaskier walked over to the flowery trunk, and stepped atop it. Geralt settled into his own seat.

“Not the same audience as in the hall, but,” Jaskier smiled, strumming a chord, “quality over quantity, I believe. This is—this is a song called ' _Hear Me.'_ ”

Geralt watched the shadows of the dancing lights mottle Jaskier's skin as he sung, turning him backlit-holy, a kind of divinity within his voice. Throughout the song, Geralt sat entirely still, keeping his promise. Jaskier called out. Geralt listened.

Even a simple man would be able to discern the meaning within the lyrics. A deep ache bloomed within Geralt's chest, the quiet tragedy of misunderstandings and unspoken affections; the nights he'd missed Jaskier's warmth, sacrificing closeness for the sake of a space that had never been asked for. _Hear me,_ Jaskier sung, and for the first time, Geralt truly did.

When the last note faded, Geralt remained quiet. It was not a time for applause. Jaskier shuffled on the log, visibly flushed, before he hopped down.

“There,” Jaskier whispered, “now you know.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you felt like this, Julek?” Geralt asked, reaching across the gap between them, clasping Jaskier's hands.

“I don't really know when it began.” Jaskier admitted. “I think there was a time... gods, it's so mundane. We were walking. You stopped, and shushed me, which I thought rather rude, because I was in the middle of a hilarious anecdote – but anyway, you pointed down to a pond at the edge of a glen, where a mother moose stood with her calf, drinking the water. It was peaceful. I watched you watch them and I thought... well. You know what I thought.”

“For me it was... it was sudden.”

“I--for you?” Jaskier recoiled.

“Outside a butcher's, after we'd sold meat from a boar hunt. A man made a comment about me in passing. You punched him so hard you bruised your whole hand, and we had to run out of the damn village because it turned out that he was the elder's son.” Geralt smiled. “When we were safe, and out of breath, I looked over at you and I thought—I thought...”

Jaskier bit his lip. “Yeah?”

Slowly, Geralt brought Jaskier's hands up to his mouth. With reverence, he kissed his bard's fingers. “I thought that not much in the Continent could make me a believer of fate, or aligned stars, or other mystical celestial nonsense, but, there you were. In you, I saw an entire world. A place I wanted to stay.”

Bowing, Jaskier pressed their joined hands to his forehead. “Then stay you must.”

“You'll have me? Flawed and uncertain, like this?”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier whispered, “I'd not take you any other way.”

Geralt heard him. _Darling. Here we are, together. For the moment, that is everything we need._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I am also on tumblr @inber if you are on that hellsite too.


End file.
